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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26323186">Justice is a Dish Best Served Cold, February 1976</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/BobbyCrocker101/pseuds/BobbyCrocker101'>BobbyCrocker101</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Kojak (TV 1973)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>1970s, Air Accidents, Airplane Crashes, Body Doubles, Bombs, Cement Overcoats, Concrete Overcoats, Construction Workers, Detectives, Disappearances, Embezzlers, Gen, Manhattan South, NYPD, New York City, Skeletal Remains, Skeletons, construction sites, doppelgangers, embezzlement, homicides, human remains, murders</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-20 09:07:44</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>9,082</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26323186</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/BobbyCrocker101/pseuds/BobbyCrocker101</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Kevin Patrick Dobson, 18th March 1943-6th September 2020: "If you love your country, thank a veteran."</p><p>Kojak’s thoughts concerning the events that occurred in the Season 3 episode 'Justice Deferred' with a few changes and bits added. Fans of the show will remember this as one of two episodes where Crocker doesn't appear - but I found a way!</p><p>This is an original story set in February 1976.</p><p>Feedback welcome</p>
            </div></td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Justice is a Dish Best Served Cold, February 1976</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>None of the characters belong to me; I'm just playing with them for a while before putting them back in their box. No money is being, or will be made from this story.</p><p>I was 15 in September 1973 when "Kojak" first aired, and had other things to do. Now I'm retired I’ve finally watched this wonderful old TV show for the first time. I’m from the UK and have never visited the US, but have made use of the internet to gain information about the NYPD and the city of New York. I apologise in advance for any language confusion.</p><p>In the Season 2 episode “Nursemaid” (1974) Crocker’s ID shows him to have been born in 1943 which would make him 33 in 1976, but because he's occasionally referred to as being very young and is often called "Kid" or "Junior", my version of him was born in 1951 which makes him 25 in this story, and since little is known about his back story I've made up my own version.</p><p>Spoilers: Major spoilers for the season 3 episode 'Justice Deferred', and a familiarity with the show would be useful.</p><p>Glossary: Meshugana = Yiddish for something that is crazy or nonsensical</p><p>Enjoy!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Monday morning</p><p>I’d been suffering with a raging toothache all weekend, and had been on my way to the dentist when I received the call informing me that my presence was required at a construction site in downtown Manhattan where a body had been found. Crocker was already at the scene, along with Stavros and a couple of Forensics guys; one of whom was taking photos, while the other was making notes. Curious demolition men were hanging round watching.</p><p>“Good morning lieutenant!” My detective greeted me, all smiles.</p><p>Annoyed I informed him I’d cancelled a dental appointment and then asked what we’d got. Stavros handed me a skull and told me he wasn’t sure. On the face of it, he told me, it looked like a typical syndicate ‘scratch’; hardly worth the paperwork. I looked with interest at the skull, and commented that if a man had a pair of them he could start a mariachi band. </p><p>“They dug this skull right out of the foundations?” I asked.</p><p>“Standard 'Class A' concrete embalming job.” Crocker replied.</p><p>“Anything else?” I asked. My detective replied that there were some bones and a few shreds of what had once been clothing. I remembered what Stavros had said and asked him to explain his doubts.</p><p>“Well, clean entry.” He pointed to the small hole in the front of skull, just above the right eye socket. “No exit, and the size of the aperture indicates a small-bore weapon; possibly a twenty-two.” He replied.</p><p>“So?” I asked, getting annoyed. </p><p>“So, it’s safe to assume the shot wasn’t fired point blank, and a twenty-two is not your typical ‘kill gun’: Execution? Looks more like dumb luck to me.” He replied. I asked if anyone had found out when the building had gone up. Crocker pointed to the cigar-chomping, hard-hat wearing guy behind him, who it turned out was the site foreman, and told me that the place had been built in 1957. I asked my two detectives to see if they could find out the exact date the foundations were poured, and starting from then to start wading their way through the missing person’s reports, crime files, newspapers, morgues etcetera!</p><p>“Eighteen years lieutenant; do you know what you’re ASKING?” Stavros asked incredulous.</p><p>“You know archaeologists are still trying to solve the mystery of the pyramids, and you don’t hear THEM complaining do you?” I replied. My tooth was killing me. I walked away.</p><p>“What the hell’s the big mystery about the pyramids?” Stavros asked.</p><p>“They don’t have ‘johns’.” I heard Crocker reply. I smiled to myself as I got back into my car and headed back to the precinct.</p><p>****</p><p>Tuesday morning</p><p>Crocker walked into my office a little after 06:00. Like me he’s a bit of an insomniac and he’d been working through the night on our latest case. After finishing up at the demolition site he’d gone over to City Hall to check the building records and had learned that the concrete had been poured on May 8th 1957. He’d then gone over to the ME’s office and after ‘explaining’ to the good Dr Moscowitz that I wanted his report NOW, despite the deceased having been waiting for the past eighteen years and not going anywhere anytime soon, my detective finally came away with the autopsy report. Lastly he’d gone over to Forensics to get THEIR report. After that he’d returned to the precinct and had spent the past few hours sorting out the paperwork and typing it all up. He looked beat and by the way he was squinting at the lights I suspected he also had a migraine: he gets them from time to time, but refuses to take time off unless forced to, or I make it an order. He sat himself down on the chair in front of my desk and waited while I shaved, but fell asleep before I finished. A few minutes later the captain walked in looking extremely happy and speaking with a fake Irish accent.</p><p>“Top of the mornin’ to you boyos!” The man was WAY too cheerful for the time of day. Crocker jumped awake and stifled a yawn. “And what’s the good word?”</p><p>“Crocker? You’re on.” I informed my detective. He began to stand up, but Frank took one look at him and told him to remain seated. Stifling another yawn Crocker opened the file and began to read.</p><p>“The Medical Examiner’s report says that although the victims teeth had a few new fillings it will be next to impossible to establish identification through existing dental records...” I cut him off;</p><p>“You know that concrete was poured on May 8th 1957 Frank? The trail that leads to Judge Crater? It aint a hell of a lot colder than this one!” I remarked. Crocker continued.</p><p>“There was however a small dental bridge, and there’s a slim chance we MIGHT be able to trace the manufacturer… and through them… maybe get a line on the dentist who ordered it…” </p><p>“Dentist.” I repeated. That reminded me… I got up from my chair and walked over and stood behind Crocker and together with the captain looked over his shoulder at the file on his lap. The kid was fast running out of energy, but somehow managed to keep going.</p><p>“According to the autopsy findings the victim was five feet eleven, weighed something in the neighbourhood of one hundred and seventy-five pounds and was somewhere between thirty and thirty-five years of age when ‘snuffed’.” I walked to the door and yelled for Rizzo.</p><p>“I want you to phone Doc Eggenweiler; see if he can squeeze me in this afternoon,” I ordered. “I gotta tooth that’s killin’ me.” I pointed to tooth in question. Rizzo informed me it was a bicuspid. I grabbed the Racing Times out of his hand and slapped him with it before sending him on his way. Crocker continued reading the autopsy report.</p><p>“There’s… two additional pieces of information. One: Our DOA’s left leg had been broken and is currently held together by bone grafts and two steel pins…” Stavros walked into the room carrying two cups of coffee. He gave one to me. Without looking Crocker put his hand out automatically for the other cup, which Frank grabbed. Stavros took one look at our young colleague, went back out into the squad room, and came back with a cup of water and some Tylenol.</p><p>“… Moscowitz states orthopaedic surgery transpired within three years of his demise…” Crocker continued as I put my shirt and tie on.” And two: Among the foreign matter… Forensics recovered at the scene... was a set of bone buttons which unlike the fabric they were attached to remain intact…” Crocker put the folder down on the desk and closed his eyes.</p><p>“Any labels on the clothes?” I asked.</p><p>“No, nothing.” He replied quietly. Frank looked at the pair of us.</p><p>“All I said was ‘what’s the good word?’ For this I get Washington’s farewell to the troops?” I walked over to Crocker and pulled him up out of the chair.</p><p>“Somewhere in this meshugana metropolis of ours Crocker there’s a bed with your name on it. Seek and ye shall find.” Uncomplaining he went back to his desk, picked up his coat and keys and left for home. The fact that he hadn’t argued told me he had one of THOSE headaches; the kind that can last for several days. My sister Sophie gets them; she always blames the weather.</p><p>“Do you think we’re working him too hard?” Frank asked looking concerned as Crocker walked out of the squad room.</p><p>“It’s obvious you haven’t met this cute blonde ‘number’ he’s been running around with lately.” I teased. Frank raised his eyes to the ceiling knowingly. “Nah, it’s just a migraine Mac, that and lack of sleep; he’ll be alright,” I corrected. At that moment Stavros coughed. Hard to believe, but I’d actually forgotten he was in the room.</p><p>“Lieutenant; don’t you want to hear what Ballistics had to say?” He asked crossly. I made a guess that it was a twenty-two, possibly a target pistol, but its slants and grooves had failed to match up with anything on our files.</p><p>“Now HOW does he do that captain?” Stavros asked, impressed. </p><p>“Don’t ask me; I just come here for the coffee!” Frank replied. He put his cup down and walked out of the room.</p><p>****</p><p>Tuesday lunchtime</p><p>Perfect timing I thought as I walked into the squad room. For a change lunch had been ordered in and had just arrived. There was a cardboard box on Stavros’ desk containing brown paper bags full of sandwiches and other goodies. I looked round the room Saperstein was working at his desk, Tracy was sitting at Crocker’s desk checking through a file, Rizzo was over at HIS desk pretending to look busy, and my old 'friend' Reggie Watson was in the holding pen. Nice and quiet, just how I like it.</p><p>Stavros informed me that they had traced the dental bridgework to a firm in Yonkers that had gone out of business in 1960; a list of all their customers had been obtained and the dentists who were still in business had been contacted…” I rummaged through the box.</p><p>“Who ordered the smoked sturgeon?” I asked. Saperstein said he had, I handed him a paper bag. Stavros continued with his report. The bone buttons had turned out to be a speciality item, and the entire consignment had been bought by Corngold &amp; Sons; a local manufacturer of quality men’s suits and they still carry the line in three of their stores, he informed me.</p><p>“Egg salad and a Kaiser roll, hold the lettuce...!” I called out, “Here you go Tracy!” I handed him his lunch. Stavros resumed, and told me they’d checked the store’s records and had managed to come up with a fairly comprehensive list of all their regular customers during the ‘crucial’ time period. I picked up a paper bag that smelled disgusting; ham and chicken livers at a guess and just handed it straight to my large friend as he informed me, in his usual style, that with the cooperation of the local ‘medical society’, all the available orthopaedic surgeons had been canvassed and pertinent information elicited wherever possible.</p><p>“Pastrami on rye. Russian dressing!” I called out. Reggie banged the holding cage wall to indicate that it was his. I walked over, opened up the door and handed him his lunch. Re-locking it I asked Stavros to continue, which he did, with his mouth full. He, Rizzo and Saperstein had also checked our information against any males who were reported missing during calendar year 1957 who generally matched our victim’s physical description… He paused.</p><p>“Well don’t stop THERE, gimme gimme.” I pressed. Frank walked past the door, looked in, surveyed the scene before him with disbelief and then entered the room.</p><p>“I’m givin’ you bupkis! We came up dry; NOTHIN’!” Stavros finally replied. I asked Saperstein to get Moscowitz on the phone. Frank crossed the room, put a file on Saperstein’s desk and walked over to the holding cage where our ‘guest’ was eating his meal.</p><p>“Since when did we start a catering service for homicide suspects?” he asked.</p><p>“Captain, who do you think picked up the ‘tab’ for all this?” Saperstein replied. It comes to something when the bad guys are providing catering services to New York’s finest!</p><p>“Oh, so THAT'S how he killed his wife, well nobody’s perfect, right?” Frank remarked. Saperstein called me to the phone. Frank rummaged in the box, found HIS lunch and then hovered while eating. </p><p>“Moscowitz?” I spoke into the receiver.</p><p>“Yeah” the Medical Examiner replied.</p><p>“Based on the buttons, let’s assume for the sake of argument that our John Doe wasn’t a blue collar worker, which means it isn’t too likely he ‘busted’ that leg in the performance of his job. How else? Auto accident?” I asked.</p><p>“No, no, that was the only injury. There’s not another fracture; not even hairline.” He went quiet for a second. I looked across at Frank who was, to my amazement, drinking out of a can. “Hey! What about SPORTS?” Moscowitz suddenly yelled into my ear.</p><p>“A professional athlete that does a vanishing act? Are you kidding? That would have to get SOME Press attention!” I replied.</p><p>“Well AMATEUR sports then!” Moscowitz suggested excitedly. “Skiing for example: now this is EXACTLY the type of break that’s typical of a…” I put the phone down on him and turned to Stavros.</p><p>“Alright, put together a list of ski resorts; upstate New York, New Hampshire, Maine, Vermont and like that, and start contacting doctors in their general vicinities…”</p><p>“What happens if we still come up with ‘zilch’?” Stavros asked.</p><p>“Then Fatso, like the ever popular Lewis and Clark you start working your way westward.” I replied grinning. Stavros pointed out that Lewis and Clark had had an Indian scout.</p><p>“So did General Custer!” Frank chimed in between mouthfuls. I could see the captain wasn’t happy, and as soon as he had emptied his mouth he gave it me with both barrels; I’d been spending too much time on this case and other work was being neglected and I should pack it in. Eighteen years after the fact; it CAN'T be done, he told me. Even with the combined resources of the FBI, Army Intelligence, Interpol and the Sûreté Français, it still CAN'T be done! He then handed me a cup cake and walked out of the room. I shouted after him:</p><p>“Maybe for some reason the deceased was never reported missing, and thanks for listening!” I wasn’t giving up on this yet, and turned to Saperstein.</p><p>I asked him to ‘eighty-six’ the missing man. What I was looking for now was a common denominator; ANY common denominator. If a name, just ONE name surfaced in more than one category… I threw the cupcake down onto the desk.</p><p>****</p><p>Wednesday morning</p><p>I’d just sat down at my desk when my phone rang. It was Saperstein phoning with a name for me. </p><p>“Alright, what was that name again? Spell it!”</p><p>“B-R-A-D-E-N.”  I wrote it down on a piece of paper, thanked him and put the phone down. Picking up my coffee and the piece of paper I walked to the door and yelled for Stavros. </p><p>“Dear Charles Atlas, your pal Hercules? He’s about to lift the world from your sagging shoulders.” I informed him, showing him the piece of paper, “do you see this name? Gary Braden. Now I want you to ‘wing’ it on its way to all those ski resorts we talked about.”</p><p>“That’s what you want?” he asked.</p><p>“That’s what I want,” I replied. “Because you see, this here name was just ‘laid on me’ by the indefatigable Saperstein, and not only was Braden a customer of one of the clothing stores handling the suits with the distinctive bone buttons, he was also a patient of one of the dentists on the lists, so get cracking and let’s see if we can’t make it three out of three.” Stavros looked at me puzzled, I yelled at him to move it. I looked round the squad room, and seeing the empty chair where Crocker should have been asked the whereabouts of my detective. Stavros reminded me that I’d sent him home.</p><p>“That was yesterday! I told him to get some shut-eye; I didn’t tell him to ‘knock off’ for the winter! Alright call his ‘pad’, tell him to ‘get it’ over here.”</p><p>Wednesday afternoon</p><p>Rizzo had managed to make an appointment for me with my dentist and I was heading out when Stavros met me at the door all excited. He’d worked through the previous afternoon and most of the night and had made a lot of phone calls but had finally got a result; Gary Braden had broken his left leg skiing while on vacation at Lake Placid back in 1955.</p><p>Frank joined us in the squad room doorway.</p><p>“Do you want it with or WITHOUT the Novocaine?” He asked. I wasn’t sure I wanted ‘IT’ at all. At that moment Crocker turned up and we all stood in the doorway looking at one another. He didn’t look any better than he had yesterday.  </p><p>“Excuse me captain… lieutenant.” He began as he pushed between us and gingerly headed over to his desk. </p><p>“I’ve got this bell in my head; won’t stop ringing.” Frank began, “Gary Braden I said to myself. Now where have I heard that name before? So I called my good friend Charlie Weinstein on the metropolitan desk over at The Times. Now he doesn’t even have to check the files; that’s the kind of memory Charlie has. Gary Braden, fugitive, embezzler, died May 12, 1957 in the crash of an airliner bound for Rio.”</p><p>“May 12th?” I asked. Stavros reminded me the concrete had been poured on May 8th. Forgetting the dentist I headed back to my office.</p><p>****</p><p>Later that afternoon I met with Keith McCallum in his office. He’d been the president of Empire State Mutual Funds, the company Gary Braden had worked for before his untimely demise. I told him what we’d found out so far.</p><p>“I’m sure you’re mistaken lieutenant; I mean do you have positive proof that the skeletal remains belong to Gary Braden?” he asked. I replied that no, I wasn’t positive, but I’m a sceptic if there are too many coincidences. I told him I’d read the newspaper account of Braden’s disappearance and wanted to hear HIS version of events.</p><p>“Well, as you know I was the president of the Empire State Mutual Funds and Gary was the comptroller.” He began, “The first inkling we had that something was amiss was when the airliner went down at sea and Gary’s name appeared on the passenger list. Of course, there being no reason why he shouldn't notify us when he left the country, we ordered an immediate audit and discovered nearly three million dollars was missing.” I nodded. “Now of course, the company went bankrupt and many small investors lost their life savings. It was a very tragic calamity lieutenant. Would you like a highball? Can I offer you some refreshment?” He offered, changing the subject.</p><p>Politely refusing I asked McCallum if he could recall offhand whether Braden reported for work after May 8th. He got up and walked to the bar behind where I was sat and fixed himself a drink.</p><p>“Well I don’t remember an exact date, but he DID call in one day and he said he had the flu and he’d be out for a day or two, yes.” he replied. I asked if he’d spoken to the man personally, but it turned out Braden had spoken to his secretary. I asked if I could interview her, but was told she’d died a few years before. McCallum walked over to his desk and sat down.</p><p> “Well anyhow lieutenant, I’m sure you’re mistaken about Braden. Why would anyone want to kill him and then hide the corpse?” He asked. There was something about this man I didn’t like.</p><p>“I can come up with something.” I replied, watching him closely, “Just suppose Braden wasn’t the embezzler. Suppose he discovered the shortage, suppose he confronted the perpetrator or perpetrators and had been ‘wasted’ for his trouble, the books then ‘doctored’ to frame him and the ‘guilty flight’ to Brazil set up?”</p><p>“Really lieutenant, I like a good ‘who done it’ as much as the next man, but why would your hypothetical killer go to such complicated lengths?” He asked. So I told him; to end the search for Braden and for the missing ‘bread’. </p><p>“It’s not bad,” I remarked, “embezzler flees to Rio, a city already up to its armpits in fugitives, happily exploiting the fact that Brazil has no extradition treaty with the US of A.”  </p><p>“Well, say that your conjecture has some basis in reality, the man who was supposed to impersonate Braden perished at sea!” He replied.</p><p>“Convenient isn’t it?” I replied, smiling. McCallum leant forward in his chair.</p><p>“Lieutenant… I hate to blow a gaping hole in your scenario, but before boarding the plane the man would have had to present Gary’s passport. Now four days elapsed between the burial of the corpse and the departure of the Brazilian flight. Now tell me this lieutenant, how could someone come up with a passable double at such short notice?” It was time for me to leave. I got up from my chair and picked up my hat. </p><p>“You know something? That’s a very very good question Mr McCallum… and it’s questions like that that keep us awake nights in the ‘cop business’,” I remarked that the collapse of Empire State Mutual funds didn’t appear to have affected HIM too badly.</p><p>“Well lieutenant, ever since infancy I’ve always had the uncanny ability to land on my feet.” I put my hat on and he showed me to the door.</p><p>I looked at the man standing next to me. I had my killer, I was sure of it; all I needed was proof.</p><p>****</p><p>On my way back to the precinct I decided to call Crocker and pulled up at a pretzel stand, run by my good friend Harry Schwartz. </p><p>I asked him how he was and he handed me a pretzel wrapped in a napkin. I looked at it suspiciously and banged it on the cart. It was rock hard. I told him I wanted a PRETZEL not a weapon and opened the compartment on top of the cart and grabbed a nice fresh one.</p><p>I wandered over to the nearby public phone and called Crocker’s number and asked him to draw up a list of those male Caucasians fitting or closely resembling Gary Braden’s general description reported missing on or immediately subsequent to May 12th 1957. Stavros and the others hadn’t come up with anyone, but Crocker has a knack for finding information other people miss.</p><p>He asked what we were looking for. I told him we’re looking for a ringer; a dead ringer.” I ended my call and headed back to my car.</p><p>****</p><p>That evening I was sitting at my desk demolishing a large pepperoni pizza when Crocker walked into the room, and as I hoped he’d come up with a name for me. I could tell his head was still bothering him and invited him to sit before he fell down. He handed me a file.</p><p>“Maychek, Karl; TV repairman, reported missing June 25th. Nearly six weeks after the airline crash.” I read.</p><p>“Not too promising huh?” Crocker suggested as he tipped a couple of painkillers into his palm and took a swig of MY coffee to wash them down.</p><p>“Says here a Wilbur Dietz filed the missing persons’ report; what’s a Wilbur Dietz?” I asked. Crocker told me he was Maychek’s landlord and he was trying to locate him. I told him to continue with that and also to try and get a photograph of Karl Maychek; he was a TV repair man, maybe there’s an ‘angle’ there.</p><p>“Angle? What kind of angle?” Crocker asked.</p><p>“How should I know?” I replied through a mouth full of pizza. Crocker got up off the chair and headed toward the door. He stopped and looked back at me.</p><p>“How’s the tooth?” He asked.</p><p>“Lousy. How’s the head?”</p><p>“Lousy,” he replied. He turned and almost bumped into Frank in the door way “How are YOU doing captain?” he asked. Frank didn’t reply but just walked over to my desk. </p><p>Angrily he told me that he was ‘catching’ a lot of flak from ‘upstairs’ over the amount of time, money, and manpower I was pouring into this case. “The phone bill alone…!” he started. I cut him off</p><p>“Frank. If my scenario’s on target, there’s a better than even chance that plane crash was NO accident!” I replied. He asked me if I knew what I was suggesting. I wiped my mouth with a napkin.</p><p>“I’m saying that whoever perpetrated the initial homicide may be responsible for over 80 additional deaths as well. There’s a logic to it Frank.” He sat down on the chair Crocker had just vacated. “The disappearance of that airliner disposed of both the alleged embezzler AND the missing loot! Even if the odds were 1000/1 would the Commissioner really wish me to drop the investigation?” Frank shook his head and said no, but added that he thought we should bring the Federal Aviation boys into the picture.</p><p>I told him, it’s still just a bundle of hunches. But pushed to the wall I would have to admit we didn’t have a positive ID on the skeleton; circumstantial evidence sure, but nothing we could go to the Grand Jury with. Braden’s dentist was deceased. His son had taken over the practice, he’d examined the fillings, claimed it looked like ‘Papa’s’ work; only it’s not something he would be able to swear to on the witness stand. Frank asked about the orthopaedic surgeon up at Lake Placid. I informed him the man had retired from practice six years ago and had thrown away all his X-rays when he moved from his offices… Frank put his head in his hands and reminded me that we’d SHOWN the man the photos of the bone graft, the steel pins…</p><p>“And he thinks he did the job Frank. THINKS! After nearly twenty years, listening to a man well into his seventies would a jury be persuaded? Would you?” Frank shook his head. At that moment Rizzo appeared in the door way to report that they’d found Braden’s widow Monica, who was now living under the name of Gibney. I bit into another slice of pizza and immediately regretted it as I felt my tooth twinge. Frustrated I threw the pizza down onto the desk. Rizzo shrugged and walked away as I wiped my mouth on the napkin again. Perhaps I should ‘borrow’ some painkillers from Crocker, even though they didn’t appear to be doing HIM a lot of good. This case was definitely bringing out the worst in us.</p><p>****</p><p>After I’d finished up at the precinct I drove over to Ms Gibney’s home. She was certainly a glamorous lady and had opened the door to me wearing an expensive white backless evening gown with a matching cape over the shoulders. In fact her entire apartment looked expensive; fancy furnishings, vases of fresh flowers. Everything was just a little too perfect… At her invitation I sat down next to a vase of pink roses and baby’s breath and lit a cigarillo. </p><p>I asked if Gibney was her maiden name. She replied that it was; she’d reverted back to it because of the scandal involving her husband. I commented that she’d never re-married. She told me it hadn’t been necessary as her husband’s life insurance had left her well provided for. Looking round the apartment I could see that for myself, and I also figured she didn’t spend a lot of time there on her own.</p><p>I asked if she’d had any forewarning, any inkling of what her husband had been involved in. While waiting for her carefully rehearsed response I watched as she wandered over to a display cabinet, swishing her dress as she moved. She stopped, unlocked and opened one of the glass fronted doors and took out her plants one at a time and checked their soil for moisture.</p><p>She and her husband had been separated at the time, she told me, and under the circumstances she didn’t think he would have confided in HER. I asked her when she’d last seen him. She thought about a month before he'd disappeared, but she wasn’t sure. Had she heard from him at all during that period I pressed. She finished checking her plants, closed the cabinet door and re-locked it.</p><p>She began moving round the room showing off the dress to its best effect and told me that she’d regularly heard from him, once a week by mail, when her allowance cheques arrived; every Monday.</p><p>She stopped at a table and picked up a copy of Cosmopolitan magazine and began skimming through it. I asked if she’d received a cheque on Monday, May 11th; the day before the crash. She looked up from the magazine and said she hadn’t; and she remembered it distinctly because she’d been so annoyed at the time. She’d contemplated calling Gary, but had then decided to wait a day to allow for any mix-up at the Post Office. She put the magazine down and resumed her pacing round the room, swishing the dress as she moved. Sure enough on Tuesday morning, the cheque arrived she continued, and informed me that she’d noted the postmark; it had been the Sunday afternoon.</p><p>I complimented her on her phenomenal memory. She replied that there are some things ‘one’ never forgets, and then politely informed me that unless I had any further questions our ‘chat’ was over as the subject hardly revived nostalgic memories for her. I took another look round the room and remarked that she didn’t seem to have suffered too much. She informed me that she had been her husband’s only beneficiary and that I wouldn’t find her pretending to grieve; the Lord helps those who help themselves, she added.</p><p>I took a puff on my cigarillo and then informed her that had if her husband had merely vanished, which would have been the case IF those bones were proved to be his, she would have had to have waited seven years for him to be declared legally dead, and not only would she have NOT have collected on the double indemnity clause, it’s possible that the insurance company might have refused to pay anything at all.” I put on my hat. Except for her husband’s name on that passenger list, I told her, she could have been standing behind the ribbon counter at a dime store. She sneered at me and suggested I give her a little more credit. I bade her farewell and left her to her thoughts. As with McCallum I had that feeling I was on the right track, but again, I needed evidence.</p><p>On my way back down town I stopped off at a phone booth and called the precinct. Saperstein answered. I told him I wanted him to dig around and see if he could determine if Monica Gibney-Braden or her husband ever filed for divorce. Eighteen years ago divorce laws in this state had been a lot tougher than they are now. There were only three grounds; insanity, abandonment and adultery, and to prove the latter you had to name a co-respondent.</p><p>****</p><p>Thursday morning</p><p>I was sitting in Frank’s office. He’d been in touch with CENIPA; the Brasilian investigators into the airliner crash, and had a translated copy of their report on his desk. He put on his glasses on and began to read;</p><p>“While it was never admitted publicly, the possibility of a bomb was strongly suspected..." But he added, no trace of the wreckage was ever found, so they hadn’t a shred of evidence to back it up.</p><p>“Bomb… constructed by… anybody.” I commented.</p><p>“Well to coin a phrase,” Frank continued “‘where there’s a will there’s a way’. And three million ‘balloons’ can generate a lot of willpower. With today’s sophisticated detection devices it couldn’t be smuggled on board, but eighteen years ago…”</p><p>“How the hell are we going to trace maybe a few sticks of dynamite, some wire, and a drug store alarm clock after eighteen years?” I asked exasperated. At that moment the phone rang. Frank answered, spoke a few words and then handed the receiver to me. It was Crocker. He was over at the Mount Hebron Home for the Elderly and had located Wilbur Dietz. I told him to stay there and wait for me.</p><p>On my way downstairs I met up with Saperstein who informed me that on May 7 1957 Mrs Monica Braden had filed for divorce naming a Ms Rosemary Hawkins as co-respondent. I ordered him to see if he could find out where she was living.</p><p>****</p><p>Over at the Mount Hebron Home for the Elderly Crocker and I sat outside in the sun with Wilbur Deitz who was in the middle of knitting something with some very large wooden needles. Crocker I noticed was wearing sunglasses, a sure sign his headache was still very much in evidence. Thankfully Mr Deitz still had most of his marbles and was more than willing to talk to us – in exchange for a few puffs on a cigarillo.</p><p>“Karl Maycheck; who could forget him? Always behind with his rent he was. But go holler on such a guy! He disappeared you know.” Deitz told us. I reminded him that was the reason for our visit. He cut me off.</p><p>“One day he came home; so happy he was. There was this big business proposition he’d fallen into; guaranteed to make him wealthy for life.” He continued. Crocker asked what kind of business proposition, but it seemed that Maychek had been sworn to secrecy. All Dietz knew was that the man had to leave town for a couple of weeks and had asked him and his wife Bernice to look after his son while he was away. He’d even insisted on paying them two-hundred dollars for their trouble. </p><p>I offered him a drag on my cigarillo, which he accepted, and then watched concerned as he choked his lungs up. Since smoking was forbidden at the care home, it had been some time since he’d last enjoyed a puff. He continued with his ‘tale’ and told us that from that day to this he’d seen neither hide nor hair of Karl Maychek, and after six weeks passed had reported him missing.</p><p>Crocker asked what had happened to the boy. Deitz replied that he and his wife had ‘carried’ him for as long as they could, but they had three children of their own and times were hard back then. In the end the kid had been handed over to the juvenile authorities. He stopped and thought for a while before informing us that ‘Little Anton’ would now be twenty-four years old, but where he was currently living, assuming  he was alive, was anyone’s guess. I offered him another puff on my cigarillo.</p><p>Crocker then asked if Dietz could recall anything that may have happened before Maychek’s disappearance that would be significant to us. The man shook his head. He couldn’t think of anything specific other than the fact that Karl had been a very happy man, and then suggested we might ask ‘Little Anton’ if we could find him because he saw the man.</p><p>“What man?” I asked somewhat surprised.</p><p>“The man who’d made that sensational business proposition to Maychek! Anton came home just as the man was leaving.” I offered Deitz another ‘smoke’, but he refused.</p><p>****</p><p>Back at the precinct I was in my office with Captain McNeil struggling to eat a Chinese meal with chopsticks. Frank was much better at it than me and said the food always tasted better eaten that way; I threw away my chopsticks and just used my fingers. We were discussing the conversation Crocker and I had had with Wilbur Dietz. Frank told me that even if we DID track down ‘Little Anton’, we were placing a lot of hopes on the recollections of something briefly glimpsed by a child almost twenty years ago.</p><p>I told him it wasn’t just that; it was everything. EVERYTHING we’d turned up so far supported our theory! I showed Frank the two photographs Crocker had obtained; one of Gary Braden, the other of Karl Maycheck. The two men were so alike I figured even their own mothers wouldn’t have been able to tell them apart.</p><p>“Granted! Granted too that Maychek was last seen on the very day the Brazilian flight left La Guardia. But that still doesn’t explain how in a city the size of New York the perpetrator managed to come up with Braden’s twin just when he needed him!” Frank remarked. I had to agree.</p><p>“OK, try this I posited…” I picked up a sheet of paper, “… Wonder boy Keith McCallum on his ‘duff’ after the collapse of Empire State Mutual Funds in 1957 made a meteoric comeback in 1958 thanks to generous financing from, are you ready…  a newly organised corporation in Delaware, whose board of directors consists of four unidentified John Doe’s, and guess who’s a major stockholder in McCallum Enterprises?” I asked.</p><p>“Braden’s widow; Monica Gibney.” Frank guessed.</p><p>“It STINKS Frank!” I got up and walked round the room and ended up leaning on the file cabinet by the door. “Come on. Give me THAT much! OK, so it’s all circumstantial, but if the Grand Jury’s waiting for a smoking gun, somebody had better clue them in that they’re eighteen years too late.” I commented.</p><p>At that moment Saperstein walked into the room, all smiles. He’d found out that Rosemary Hawkins had re-married and was now a Mrs Vilapiano, and had located her at an address in Queens. I grabbed my coat and yelled for Crocker.</p><p>****</p><p>Unlike Mrs Braden’s apartment Mrs Vilapiano’s place was modestly furnished, she was dressed sensibly and I was immediately struck by how nice she seemed. She was more than happy to chat to us about her relationship with Gary Braden.</p><p>She told us she’d been working as a hat-check girl at a restaurant where Braden used to have lunch. Their relationship hadn’t been anything serious; they were just two lonely people... She was newly divorced and had not long arrived from Nebraska with her daughter Sandy. The custody battle had been ugly which was why she’d moved east; to get as far away from her ex-husband as she could. She said that Braden was very gentle and understanding, and kind to her daughter.</p><p>Crocker asked her if she’d known Braden was married. She nodded that she’d known, but hadn’t asked any questions, and he hadn’t volunteered any answers. Then one day out of the blue she was named as co-respondent in Mrs Braden’s divorce ‘action’. She called Gary at the office and found out that he too had been ‘served’. They’d then met at her apartment to discuss the situation. After all she told us, a scandal like that was all the grounds her ex would need to take her daughter away from her.</p><p>I asked Mrs Vilapiano how Braden had taken the news. She said he’d been furious, that she’d never seen him in such a state. He’d then promised her that she’d never lose her daughter because of HIM. He’d go and talk to his wife and get the divorce ‘action’ withdrawn and, after telling her not to worry, had then stormed out of the apartment, and she’d never seen or heard from him again.</p><p>I asked if she’d tried to contact him, but she said she’d never known where he lived; just that he’d recently moved into a bachelor apartment somewhere on the East Side. Not only that, his phone number was unlisted. She’d phoned his office the next day, but had been told he was off sick.</p><p>Crocker asked Mrs Vilapiano what she thought had happened when she didn’t hear from Braden. She replied that he’d known where to reach her, that he COULD have made the effort if he’d cared enough, but it seemed he HADN'T cared; he’d just grabbed the money and gone. She added that the one good thing that had come out of it all was that Braden’s death had halted Monica’s divorce proceedings and she’d kept her daughter and in time had met and married Mr Vilapiano.</p><p>I suggested that it might be that she’d misjudged Braden. That it was quite possible the reason she’d never heard from him was because he’d been killed that same night. She asked how that was possible. Crocker told her we believed the man who boarded the plane the following Tuesday might have been an imposter. We were both surprised by her response.</p><p>Gary she told us, had a common-place kind of face, but on several occasions had been mistaken for someone else, and just a few weeks before he disappeared he'd mentioned to her that he’d had the oddest experience in his apartment when a handy man had called who was an exact double for him. I asked if the lookalike could have been a TV repairman. She replied that was EXACTLY what he’d been.</p><p>Crocker asked her if she knew whether he’d told anyone else about the incident. A story like THAT she replied; knowing Gary he would have blabbed it all round the office!</p><p>Crocker and I looked at one another before thanking Mrs Vilapiano and taking our leave.</p><p>****</p><p>Back at the precinct, Stavros followed me into my office. While I'd been over in Queens with Crocker a woman had turned up at the station with her son. He'd got hold of a gun which he claimed to have found while playing in the debris at the construction site.</p><p>“A twenty-two target pistol, right?” I asked. Stavros replied that it was, and that the kid had apparently had it hidden in his bedroom for days. His mother had found it when she’d been tidying up and had brought it and her son to the station. The gun had been tagged and sent to Ballistics for comparison firing to see if it was the same weapon that ‘wasted’ our ‘John Doe’, but it was badly corroded and it might not be possible to fire it. I asked him if he’d checked to see if Ballistics could determine who the gun was originally registered to. He said they were looking into it.</p><p>I patted him on the cheek before heading to the Captain’s office to report our latest findings.</p><p>****</p><p>I walked into Frank’s office and lit a cigarillo. He was busy taking a Dictaphone apart: apparently the tape had jammed. </p><p>I went through my report, beginning with the fact that we now knew for certain how the killer or killers had managed to come up with an exact double for Gary Braden, and we’d now recovered what we believed was the murder weapon.</p><p>“You know I love those moves; it’s just like in the old movies; you play Dr Watson, I’ll be Sherlock Holmes.” I told him. He continued to mess with the Dictaphone.</p><p>“You know something? I’m beginning to FEEL like Sherlock Holmes.” I remarked. </p><p>“You’re close Theo, but still no cigar.” Frank remarked. I began pacing up and down, giving voice to my thoughts in the style of the Baker Street sleuth;</p><p>“Now obviously, Braden’s widow will have to be quizzed again. He ‘split’ Rosemary’s bed to have a showdown with his missus; and that was the night of May 7th. The next day he’s ‘dipped’ in cement. It’s the hours between then and the pouring of the concrete that haven’t yet been accounted for, right? And I don’t look for much in the way of constructive help from Monica Gibney on THAT subject…. If we could only find that Maychek kid…” </p><p>At that moment Saperstein walked into the room to inform us that Crocker had called to say he’d located Anton Maychek. The man was currently residing at the Weldon Hotel. Frank stopped his fiddling and grabbed his coat and together we headed out.</p><p>Crocker met us in the lobby and, together with Mr Lafferty the landlord, we headed upstairs to Maychek’s room. Receiving no reply to our repeated knocks, he used his master key to unlock the door and let us in. Walking through the room we could easily see that no one was home. The landlord went and stood in the small kitchen area.</p><p>He was an annoying little man who kept giggling and looking and smiling at us in the hope that we would feed him some juicy gossip. He said he couldn’t understand it. Maychek had arrived back just fifteen minutes earlier; he’d collected his key and gone upstairs to his room. I asked if he could have gone out again, but Lafferty was adamant Maychek hadn’t left, at least not via the lobby anyway, and he was prepared to swear to it on a stack of Gideon bibles! He then asked us if we thought Maychek might have been kidnapped by some foreign agents who might want to torture him for information about his old man. Incredulous I asked if he wanted to run that past me again.</p><p>“His 'pappy'; that’s all Anton ever talked about, you couldn’t shut him up. Everybody figured he was just ‘blowin’ smoke’. Now maybe it looks like he was ‘levellin’ huh?” Lafferty informed us.</p><p>Frank asked what Maychek had said concerning his father. The landlord came out of the kitchen area and sat on the bed:</p><p>“Claimed he was a ‘spook’ with the CIA; a real heavy-weight super-brain,” he touched the top of his head for emphasis. “Told me his old man had been sent behind the Iron Curtain when he was just a kid...”</p><p>Frank closed his eyes and shook his head with disbelief.</p><p>“…And the reason he couldn’t stay in touch with Anton was on account it would ‘blow’ his cover...” Lafferty continued. Crocker looked at the ceiling. “…And he was going to come back one day soon Anton said, and the two of them would be together again just like it used to be. I thought he was pulling my chain.”</p><p>“Well don’t get too torn up about it.” I said. “We’ll check the Russian Secret Service, the CIA and we’ll throw in the FBI and whatever makes you happy.” I patted the old man on the shoulder and we walked out of the room. </p><p>Back out on the landing I noticed the window was open. I asked Lafferty if that was usual. He replied that except for in the summertime the window was always kept shut. I stuck my head out and took in the ‘scenery’.</p><p>Pulling my head back in again I looked at Crocker I ordered him to get a Forensics team over to the hotel right away to check both the window ledge, and the fence below. I also wanted the kid’s personal effects inventoried, and I wanted THEM and the forensics report on my desk first thing in the morning.</p><p>****</p><p>Leaving Crocker at the hotel Frank and I headed back to the precinct. On the way we passed the construction site and I pulled up outside the main gate. I got out of the car and checked; it was padlocked.</p><p>“What are we stopping HERE for?” Frank asked looking around at the floodlit site.</p><p>“Why wasn’t Maychek ‘whacked’ in his hotel room?" I asked, "Why go to the trouble of putting the ‘snatch’ on him, and having done so, is our killer going to pack him up and send him all the way to Jersey Pine Barrens? No way! Not with a friendly neighbourhood dumping ground just down the block,” I pointed to the construction site and suggested we’d better get some men down there.</p><p>****</p><p>It didn’t take long before Saperstein came over and led us out back to where some freshly made concrete had been poured. A couple of uniformed officers were carefully removing it.</p><p>“This guy got here before the cement mixers.” I commented, as Anton Maychek’s body was slowly uncovered, “Same MO, but for a different reason. Anton Maychek murdered; it could raise a lot of questions, but Anton Maychek vanished? Just another ‘dead-beat Bowery skip’: Let’s face it gang, we’ve been out-flanked!” </p><p>We left the crime scene clear up guys to it and headed back to the precinct.</p><p>****</p><p>Arriving in back in the squad room, I spotted Crocker at his desk checking the contents of what looked like a shoebox against a list. Stavros was talking to someone on the phone. He ended his call and came over to where Frank and I were pouring ourselves some coffee. He’d just heard from Ballistics and it transpired the twenty-two target pistol we’d recovered had been purchased by Gary Braden in November1956.</p><p>“Burned by his own ‘piece’,” I commented, and then added that it didn’t fit; not after the scenario WE’D been running with.</p><p>“So we’ll re-write it,” Frank suggested, “Let’s begin with the proposition that Braden’s not the embezzler. Add to it the fact that he left Rosemary Hawkins on the night of May 7th to go see his wife. Now it’s highly unlikely that he was ‘packing’ a gun since he had gone to Rosemary’s directly from his office.”</p><p>Stavros suggested that maybe he’d stopped by his apartment on his way to Monica’s.</p><p>“That’s possible, but highly improbable,” I replied. “He was trying to PREVENT a scandal, not to start one.”</p><p>“Unless he was walking into a pre-conceived ambush; ALSO highly unlikely,” Frank commented, and then he asked how the killer had ‘come up’ with the victim’s gun. A light went on in my head.  </p><p>“The killer already HAD the gun,” I replied. We headed into my office, “Braden had moved out on the missus right? He’d probably just packed some clothes, toilet articles, toothbrush, whatever… and he’d taken off, and without even thinking, had left the pistol behind.”</p><p>“And on the night of May 7th in the midst of a ‘knockdown’ argument Monica grabbed the gun and shot him.” Frank added sitting down.</p><p>“Then she panicked. She phoned McCallum, spilling her guts to him. He’d heard it over, had taken charge of the situation, arranged for someone to dispose of Gary’s corpse, and instructed her to keep cool. As of that moment in time there was no embezzlement right? THAT came after.”</p><p>“McCallum had known just how to pull it off; thanks to Braden’s casual mention of his ‘encounter’ with Karl Maychek.” Frank continued.</p><p>“First though, McCallum needed to buy some time so he could set things up right,” I added.</p><p>“Which he did by explaining Gary’s absence from the office with the story that he’d called in sick!” Stavros commented.  </p><p>“It was easy enough to lay his hands on Braden’s passport because it was probably left behind at Monica’s like the pistol.” Frank added.</p><p>“And Karl Maychek, once McCallum had tracked him down, couldn’t have been more accommodating. You know, we’ll probably never know what kind of ‘number’ he did on Maychek’s head, but it’s a safe guess that the poor slob climbed aboard that plane carrying a bomb in his luggage.”</p><p>“I’ll buy that; the whole package,” Frank commented, “but the DA won’t, and neither will the Grand Jury. What a break! Anton Maychek, the ONLY known witness that could link up McCallum with his father might have tied a ribbon on this, but he’s dead.”</p><p>“And THIS is his ‘estate’,” Crocker replied handing me the shoebox and list. I took the lid off and looked inside.</p><p>“Twenty-four fun-filled years on this glorious planet and he can pack his entire life into a shoebox.” I commented as I rummaged around taking stuff out. “A few snapshots of his old man… a couple of Christmas cards… his birth certificate… his high school diploma curtesy of St Andrew’s orphanage…” I tipped the remaining contents onto my desk. Something caught my eye, “… and a Phi Beta Kappa key on a gold chain with the initials K M and what looks like a date: 6-12-51.” I stopped and we all looked at one another. “You know those stories the kid had laid on Lafferty? We know that ‘jazz’ about his daddy being a secret agent was just hogwash: I figured it was all from the same weed, but Phi Beta Kappa? I mean those things don’t come in cereal boxes!” I said looking at the key.</p><p>“Devoted to his kid, teetotaller, no known vices, all those credentials and he STILL couldn’t land a decent job...” Frank commented. I searched my desk and finding what I was looking for picked up a file and opened the cover. </p><p>“What are you looking for lieutenant?” Stavros asked.</p><p>“Our run-down on Karl Maychek… here it is; dropped out of high school at 10th Grade.”</p><p>“So how did he get the…?” Stavros asked pointing at the keyring.</p><p>“K M; there’s another man with the same initials.”</p><p>“Keith McCallum,” Crocker replied.</p><p>“And around a thing like that, not even Anton Maychek’s daddy built a dream,” I replied, the chain still dangling from my fingers.</p><p>****</p><p>The following morning Crocker, Stavros and I headed over to McCallum’s office. His secretary announced our arrival and he invited us to enter. Walking over to the large wooden desk I dangled the key and chain in front of him, and grinning tossed it down onto his desk. He looked down at it, then picked it up and gently smiled.</p><p>“One day, for no reason at all I discovered it was missing.” He told us, “and for the life of me I couldn’t remember where I’d dropped it. I haven’t thought about it in years; it’s been so long.”</p><p>“That’s how it goes sometimes.” I replied smiling. He reached out with his right hand and started to open his desk drawer. Sensing he probably had a gun hidden there I stepped between him and the drawer and slammed it shut with my leg. Crocker moved forward alarmed. I picked up the key again.</p><p>“McCallum: Phi Beta Kappa; scholastic merit or, Phi Beta Kappa: Phi for fat I began, looking at Stavros: Beta for beautiful I continued, looking at Crocker, and Kappa for cops!” I finished, “and between us three we’ve compiled maybe forty-five years’ experience on the force. If I was YOU I wouldn’t let those eighty-three killings go to my head.” I dangled the key in front of him. “This is the big time baby!”</p><p>“Eighty-TWO lieutenant,” McCallum quietly corrected, “Eighty-TWO; one belongs to Monica, credit where credit is due.”</p><p>“And I thought the age of chivalry was dead.” I grabbed him by his tie and hauling him up from his chair handed him to Stavros who escorted him out the room. I continued to play with the key. “Are you ready for the biggest laugh of all?” I called out, “don’t forget to read that punk his rights!” I looked over at Crocker;</p><p>“How’s the head?” I asked.</p><p>“Much better,” he replied smiling, “how’s the tooth?”</p><p>“Better,” I replied, grinning with satisfaction, and then winced, "or perhaps not…”</p>
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